You got a job as a nurse for a girl with sore feet. Her father, Mr. Finger, a man with a sad haze in his eyes, said that she spent most of her time in bed, and only occasionally moved on crutches, suffering from pain.

Your body was cramped with excitement before the first meeting with your ward.

Mr. Finger took you to the Pieck's room. It is small and clean, and smells of medicines and honey inside. There was a girl lying on the bed, wearing a white nightgown, and dark hair falling in waves from her shoulders. There were wooden crutches against the wall next to the bed. A faint smile appeared on Pieck's tired face at the sight of you.

"Oh, am I dead, or are you just an angel?" she asked you.

Mr. Finger cast a serious but without malice glance at his daughter.

"I hope you get along," he said and left the room.